


Teeth

by SkinSlave



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Horror, Blood and Injury, Dentistry, Dentists, Duct Tape, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Needles, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Police, Serial Killers, Teeth, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:00:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21864130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkinSlave/pseuds/SkinSlave
Summary: While investigating missing persons cases, Detective John Lowery finds himself in Dr. Manson's chair.TW: oral torture, tape bondage, brief noncon sexual contact, strange AU careers.Big thanks to my buds who encouraged me to pursue the idea. 💚 My apologies to everyone else. 😂
Relationships: John 5/Marilyn Manson
Comments: 15
Kudos: 14





	Teeth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chicanerymakesmehappy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chicanerymakesmehappy/gifts).



He dropped two teeth into the jar. It was his favorite thing in the office, tall and gently curved like a glass urn. Tucked under the edge was a business card that had been left with the receptionist. To the left, the answering machine light blinked. He hit the button.

"Dr. Manson. Detective Lowery. Again." Through the tinny speaker, he sounded like he was holding the bridge of his nose in frustration.

The doctor let the message play in the background. Mr. Lowery wasn't going to stop calling. It was his own fault. He should've moved on before anyone thought to contact him. He'd done it before. But there was a place down the street from this office that made a perfect rack of lamb and…

Well.

None of that mattered once the detective walked in. He sat patiently with a magazine. Manson kept him waiting until he checked his watch. That was enough.

"Mr. Lowery? Good of you to come." 

He shook the man's hand and led him into the office. Laura, his receptionist, had left after the last client. The building was quiet.

"I appreciate your time, Dr. Manson. I'm just looking into a few missing persons cases."

"You're not trying to identify bodies, are you?" The dentist offered a bottle of water and sat at his desk. "I'm not a forensic dentist. Just the regular kind."

"No, nothing like that." Lowery had a light laugh that was endearing. "I just noticed a bit of a pattern. Quite a few of them have you listed in their medical files, or had your card in their homes."

"My practice is growing."

"Yeah… Listen, I'm grasping at straws a little. Could you take a look at some pictures? Tell me if there's anything you can think of?"

It was strange to see their faces like that, as paper memories. A few weren't his. Maybe they were thrown in to catch him off-guard. Or maybe Lowery really was fumbling in the dark. Regardless, he tried to keep his expression and statements neutral.

"Surely you remember this one," the detective insisted, pointing. "Her name is Lucy Scribner. She has a green gem on her left front tooth. The calendar on her laptop says she was here last week. Please just take another look."

He pretended to scrutinize the picture. He wanted to seem eager to help. From the corner of his eye, he watched Lowery run his fingers through his platinum blond hair. It needed a trim.

His dark eyes moved around the walls and settled on the apothecary jar. They narrowed for a moment, then opened wide. Manson sighed. He knew what the cop was looking at: his newest addition, a pristine #9 with a tiny chip of peridot glued to the front.

Well.

"You know what," Lowery chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck, "it's ok. Like I said, I'm up against it… chasing shadows. I'm sorry to have bothered you."

A slow smile spread across Manson's face. He couldn't collect the tooth without a warrant. But if he got one, and he certainly would, the DNA match would leave no doubt. He simply couldn't allow that to happen.

"No, no. I think I do remember something in Miss Scribner's file. Let me grab that."

He stepped around the desk and into the hallway. The detective started to argue that it wasn't important. He followed, a few steps behind. It was just enough delay for the doctor to pick up the heavy borosilicate tooth on the hallway shelf.

Manson turned and swung the sculpture upward. Lowery caught it in the jaw and folded like a featherweight boxer. His jacket fell open, exposing his badge and pistol. He looked small on the floor. Kneeling down, the doctor realized he  _ was  _ small, maybe 5'6" or 5'8", 140 lbs soaking wet. That was good. 

He moved quickly, dragging the dazed man into the surgical suite. Once the detective was in the black vinyl chair, a few turns of duct tape held him there. He started to move around. Low whines filled the room. The door closed and locked, ensuring their privacy.

"Hmm… Wha…"

"I'm sorry about that," Manson said, washing his hands. "Truly I am. I'd feel awful if I chipped an incisor. Let me see."

He retrieved a sterile tray from a cabinet and settled next to the chair. The detective seemed very disoriented. He tried to get up and made a frustrated sound.

"It's ok, John… May I call you John?" He positioned the lamp and peeled the man's mouth open. "I just want to be sure I didn't harm your teeth."

"Ma teeh?"

"Teeth are important, John. And yours are particularly nice. I don't normally hit anyone in the face, of course. But you recognized that tooth."

"Tooh?"

"Lucy's tooth."

Manson took his hands back, satisfied that nothing had been broken. He moved the light into Lowery's eyes. He winced. With his platinum hair and his long eyelashes, he was actually kind of…

"Pretty."

"What? What the hell is going on? Why…?"

He pulled at the tape. It was cute. It was starting to feel right. Manson pushed that thought, and the lamp, to the side.

"You've suffered an injury, detective. What's the last thing you remember?"

"I… I was… I came to your office… I was going to show you some photos."

"I saw them," Manson said seriously, resting a hand on his shoulder. "And you saw Lucy Scribner's tooth in a jar on my desk."

Lowery swallowed and nodded, just slightly. The pieces were falling into place quickly. He tested the tape with his arms, trying not to draw attention to it.

"Is she dead?"

"I'm sure she is. But that's not important right now."

Manson retrieved a freshly autoclaved drill handpiece and fitted it with a new burr. He unwrapped a suction tip and assembled the ejector. There was no pride in using dirty instruments.

"What  _ is _ important, Dr. Manson?"

"You're a smart man," he sighed, sitting in a wheeled chair. "And you must be ambitious, being a detective. I'm sure you can appreciate my desire to be the best that I can be at… what I do. I need to know how you got from a stack of photos to my office."

"Eight of them were your patients, or they had your business card. It was the only thing they had in common. I brought pictures of other cases to see if they were linked too."

"When did you make the connection?"

"This morning." 

"And how many people on your team know?"

"No team. Just me."

"Notes? Messages?"

The detective shook his head, but cleared his throat in a way that Manson didn't like. The latter stood and nudged the chair toward the corner. He chose an implant retractor from the tray. It felt good in his hand.

"I'd better take a closer look at #26."

"It's fine."

"Nonsense. How do you think I'll feel, sending you out to another dentist to repair damage I've done?" He slipped the metal crescent behind his lower lip and pulled it out of the way. "I save teeth, John… both literally and metaphorically."

The detective was trying so hard to sit still. He no doubt thought he could talk his way out of the chair if he just cooperated. The steel tine of the probe felt teasingly around his gum line. Then it pressed into the pocket, pulling the gum back from the tooth.

John made a very manly noise to express his discomfort. It was interesting. None of his girls made sounds like that.

"Sensitivity is a bad sign. It could be broken under the gum line." He probed deeper, drawing a little blood. "Are you sure there aren't any notes in your desk? No appointment reminders?"

He didn't seem to be in a hurry to answer. A sharp jab with the probe brought his voice back. He pulled his face away.

"That won't do, John. If you aren't going to hold still, I'll tape your head. I need to know if this tooth needs to be extracted." His voice softened and dropped in pitch. "Do you understand?"

Lowery narrowed his eyes. He hummed something that sounded affirmative. The vinyl on the chair's armrests creaked under his grip. It probably wasn't necessary to drive the point home by widening the tear in his gums. But it was satisfying.

"Notebooks, detective? Computer files? Voicemails?"

"Noh."

Manson laid the bevel of a small chisel against John's already bloody gums and pressed. The firm pink flesh separated from the tooth. A fresh flood of red pooled between the spreader and his lip. Lowery growled.

"This wouldn't happen if you flossed." The doctor's deadpan face cracked into a childish smile. "I'm kidding. I just always wanted to say that."

"Ah don... keeh... notes… you… psychoh..." The detective shook the chair, unamused.

As the spreader released his bottom lip, the blood that had gathered seeped from the corner of his mouth. His cheeks were pink. He filtered the pain through his masculinity and it came out anger. Manson leaned over him, fascinated. His nose wrinkled and he lunged a few inches, spitting into his captor's face.

"You kill a cop and you'll fry, asshole. Twenty officers will be at your back door by nine am and they'll bring you in black and blue."

Manson wiped at his cheek with a towel and chuckled, "How will they even know you're missing?"

Lowery's face fell. It was a tacit confirmation of the truth. No paper trail, no one at home, no red flags until he was missed at work, just like so many career cops. It was a sad statistic. Still, he had some fight left in him.

"Fuck you. How many of those photos are yours? Fucking murderer."

"Eleven." The doctor changed his gloves. "And one you apparently don't have. And then you. You don't have any issues with thirteen, do you? Some consider it bad luck."

The detective yanked at the tape around his wrists. He seemed to be realizing that his legs, chest and hips were also immobile. He looked around the room. There was nothing to use, no one to reason with.

"I'm not superstitious, myself." Manson drew his attention again, fiddling with equipment. "I like to think I rely on logic. Although there's nothing particularly logical about what we're about to do."

"What do you want? Ahhhh-"

A finger hooked in his cheek startled him enough to open his teeth. Manson slid his favorite ratcheting Jennings gag inside. With a quick squeeze, Lowery's mouth was wide and inviting. He shook his head, pressed at the device with his tongue.

"You're so… vigorous," the doctor mused, pushing a strand of platinum hair back. "What I want is to see your teeth, John."

The detective turned away with an angry huff. His lips moved oddly. He was trying to figure out how to spit the gag out. To ensure his safety, Manson unwound a length of duct tape and secured his head. He didn't sound happy. No one ever was.

#26 was stained pink. He touched it. It moved slightly. It couldn't stay. He looked down his nose, lips parted slightly, and seated the jaws of his forceps around it.

"You're going to feel a little pressure."

He rocked the tooth back and forth, a millimeter at a time. Lowery's's eyes squeezed tight. His breath faltered. He tried to swallow the pain. The tooth clicked and scraped and gave way.

The detective made a sound like a relief valve. His strained hiss became a gurgle as blood and saliva pooled in the back of his throat. Manson quickly grabbed the evacuator and suctioned it away.

The long root of the tooth glistened in the lamplight. It was perfect: symmetrical with an adorably dainty hook. It was definitely going to be kept. He set it down on the tray.

The bleeding had subsided a bit. With a little suction, the rest of the detective's teeth were on display. One caught his eye. It was a molar with a heart-shaped filling. He rubbed the surface with a gloved finger.

"Romantic."

He slid the angle of an elevator alongside the tooth and began to pry it loose. Lowery roared. He was quickly learning the difference between a single tap root and three. His tongue tried to get in the way, then slipped back to the other side.

Manson braced against the next molar and twisted. It should've been solid. It wasn't. It had been crowned, improperly. The cap slid off. The dentist stopped and retrieved it. Anger washed over him, hot and thick.

"Who is your dentist?"

Lowery tried to respond. It came out as broken moans and hums. Manson pressed the release and yanked the gag out.

"Who?!"

"I… I go to Cypress Dental… Jesus…"

Tears squeezed into his long eyelashes. His face was so flushed. The doctor took a deep breath. It wasn't his fault that he chose shoddy care. He hadn't known any better. An uneasy smile came to his face.

"This is a ceramic crown," he said gently. "It should have been affixed much better than it was. Dental mills like Cypress just want it to hold until the warranty runs out. They don't care about your teeth. Here. Let me show you."

Manson held a mirror up. The detective blinked at himself. He no doubt felt it was surreal, to interrupt what they'd been doing to have a lesson in dentistry. His pink lips opened tentatively, then wider when he realized nothing bad was happening.

"There you go, John. Now, this…" He gestured toward the nub with a probe. "This is what remains of the original tooth. The crown is glued over the top. It's actually a cement, and what they used here looks like zinc oxide-eugenol. That's for temporary crowns. A permanent piece this thick should get a resin cement. Bottom line, they knew it was going to fall out. They engineered it that way. Ok?"

He pulled the probe back and set the mirror down. Lowery closed his mouth, his brows pinched in confusion. He was watching closely. He was trying to anticipate. Manson pulled another tray out of a cabinet.

"Have you had any other work done there?"

"A filling on the right. Upper jaw."

"Do you mind if I take a look?"

The doctor strapped on a headlamp and moved close again. Lowery opened wide. With a little maneuvering and a mirror, he found it. #3 had a slight discoloration along the inner edge.

"An amalgam filling would've been more appropriate than resin. It's a high wear area with no cosmetic concerns. But again, they want your wallet." He clicked his tongue and moved back again. "I'm going to take that out. Would you like an anesthetic?"

"What? I… It's fine. Really. It's not necessary."

"I am going to take that out," Manson repeated slowly. "Would you like an anesthetic?"

"...Yes."

His Adam's apple moved as he swallowed hard. It was interesting how different his body was. The girls cried so much more, bled so much more, begged so much more. They appealed to his libido and his relationship with his mother. But Lowery wasn't just a woman with a light brush of stubble. He was an entirely different animal. He shivered, got angry, struggled, held the tears in.

Manson realized he'd been staring too long. He prepared a syringe and held it up. Like the girls, the detective was predictably disturbed by the two-inch needle. He wriggled a bit as though stirring up something hard in his guts.

"Don't like needles?" The doctor suppressed a smile when he shook his head as much as he could. "Just close your eyes and open your mouth."

Obedience.

"1, 2, 3, pinch."

It was more than a pinch and he knew it. The needle sank into his tender gums and the flesh bulged. The medication burned cold. He was holding his breath. The needle moved. After the first few injections, Manson moved to his cheek, leaving tiny dots of blood surrounded by distended white rings.

Lowery began to drool. His tongue settled at the back of his mouth, waiting for the evacuator to clear it. Instead, the doctor let it build. It overflowed and slid thickly over the detective's soft jaw. It gave him an excuse to touch the porcelain edge. He wiped it with a cloth and cleared his mouth.

The drill spun up smoothly. Manson ground away at the filling. Flecks of resin flew in all directions. Lowery whined uncomfortably.

"I understand," the doctor soothed. "No one really enjoys going to the dentist. Most of what I do is repairing what regular upkeep would prevent, but no one wants to come in until it hurts. And you know who it really hurts? Dentists. We have an 8% suicide rate. In the end, we all find a way to live with being the bad guy… or we don't."

The large burr cleared the filling material and tore into the tooth. The sound changed. The detective flinched. Gradually, the center of the tooth disintegrated, leaving a shell. Manson rinsed and suctioned, then wedged the side of the crown into the hole.

"Bite down."

"Hng?"

"It won't hurt, John. Bite down."

Confusion became panic as he heard the remaining tooth crumble. He opened his mouth and pulled at the tape. Manson chuckled and pulled his gloves off.

"Chew."

"Huh-uh."

The doctor's hand closed around Lowery's throat. There was an odd moment as he searched between the muscles. The detective's pulse throbbed under his fingertips. He squeezed firmly.

_ "Chew." _

The anger came back. Those china cheeks flushed red. The chair jerked. He growled. But his mouth closed and his jaw moved. The room warmed with every crunch. The sound faded as the chunks of enamel and ceramic floated free. Lowery's upper lip trembled.

"Now open."

His mouth glittered like a geode, flecks of white on pink. Manson moved a water nozzle along the edges, washing them into the back of the detective's throat. His tongue blocked the way.

"Swallow."

It was awkward, but he managed to do it with only a few coughs. The doctor leaned to see the remnants of #3. A few jagged points remained. He reached in to touch them. Lowery's jaws slammed shut on his hand. He wrenched it away, cursing and stamping.

"If you're gonna kill me," the detective said angrily, "I think you ought to lose some fingers. Don't you?"

The  _ fucks _ and  _ shits _ faded, replaced by controlled breaths. Manson held his hand up to the light to survey the damage. There would be deep bruises, but the skin wasn't broken. Nothing was bending in the wrong place. It just hurt. He rubbed at the joints and focused on staying calm.

"John." His voice was tight. "No one has ever died in my chair. And I intend to keep it that way."

"Bullshit.  _ Bullshit! _ You said the Scribner girl's dead!"

"I said she probably is. I let her go, about six miles into the national park. Whatever happened after that is between her and whatever god was listening."

He busied himself, washing his hands and replacing his gloves. The movement helped work off the pain. His heart slowed. Lowery's face was sad and confused, but his voice was still police-issue.

"Why would you assume she's dead, then?"

"If she'd made it back to civilization, you wouldn't have her picture. But you're a strapping young man, aren't you, John? You'll make it back."

His emotions were in check again. He was ready to continue, though some precaution was now obviously necessary. He held the gag up. Lowery bit his lips together.

"If you don't open," the doctor said gently, "I'll remove your lower jaw."

The body in the chair convulsed, jerking against the duct tape. Manson wondered for a moment if he would stay defiant, if there would never be a moment where he truly let go. Even as he opened his lips, Lowery was still clinging to some kind of authority. He obeyed, but only because he chose to do it.

Interesting.

The gag clicked slowly, spreading him wide. His eyes still said no, but the pink invitation of his mouth said yes. With fresh gloves, it felt like a second date. They'd played a little, but they had so much to look forward to.

The doctor reached for the silver heart he wanted. The tooth was still pretty solid. He slid the elevator behind the gum and began to push. The numbness on the other side heightened the pain. The detective grunted.

"I already gave you an anesthetic," Manson said, twisting the tool. "I'm afraid it's one per customer. You don't have to worry about being heard. Between the extra insulation I installed and the widely spaced neighborhood, everything will stay between us."

The molar was lifting out of its socket a little more with every push. Blood seeped out of the gap. He suctioned it away so that he could see the roots slowly emerging. With an almost rubbery pop, it came away in his hand. The detective jolted and whimpered.

"These will be beautiful in my jar, John," the doctor beamed, placing them together on the tray. "You know, I didn't plan for this to happen. It's a break in my pattern, and I  _ do not _ break pattern… but I'm glad I did."

Manson leaned into his work, clearing the left side of Lowery's mouth. The first few teeth came out cleanly. Lowery held his breath, then groaned when they released. Then an upper molar cracked all the way into the gumline. The detective cried out. It was a lovely sound.

A spray of cool water from the irrigator hit the nerve. Lowery's shriek filled the corners of the room like a bright light. Tears finally streamed from his dark eyes. He was hurting and he was ready to embrace it.

Of course, the doctor couldn't help but press that button again. He split the next molar down the center with a cutting wheel, then the next, and the next. The rush of the water faded into the desperate screams of his plaything. He felt that familiar swell of pride and pleasure.

"Shhhhh." He stroked Lowery's silvery hair and waited. "There's a good boy. Doesn't that feel better? You understand now, don't you?"

Lowery's voice fell, weak and thin. He whined and sobbed as the pliers resumed their work. His jaw was lax. The pits of his sockets begged for gloved fingertips. They were tiny bits of emptiness, wet and helpless in the face of the doctor's will. 

The detective's eyes were the same, glassy and leaking. Manson's face went red hot. It was more than different. It was new. Nothing had been new for a long while.

He leaned down without thinking and mouthed at Lowery's jaw. His lips burned against the light stubble. He tasted fresh. No cigarette smoke, no midday bourbon, just showers and work and sleep. Just pattern.

The detective tried to pull away as Manson tasted his lips, metallic from the gag and the blood. Like the twitching of a mouse, it brought out some need to strike a killing blow. He pressed the release and jerked the gag away. It clattered on the floor.

He was on the man, biting his lips raw and digging at the arteries in his throat. Without thinking, he crawled over the chair for leverage. Lowery went limp beneath him. He sank his teeth into the web of his cheek and tore it. A flap of skin hung loose. He attacked the hole, shoving his fingers into it and biting at the edges, until he could see the other side.

As he thrust his tongue through the wound to taste his empty gums, he felt the tightness. His slacks were straining. He felt barely in control of his own body. His hands opened his belt on their own. His legs stood him up. His foot pressed the chair controls until the detective's dripping face was at just the right height. His hips drove forward.

Manson threw his head back and moaned. His cock stretched the wound wider and skipped over the ridges of bloody gum. Lowery coughed and whined, drowsy. The doctor nearly folded in half over him as he came. It was unlike anything else.

New.

He sat the chair up, let Lowery drool white and red. He cleaned himself. He tucked the chosen teeth into his pocket. He retrieved the sealed box from the freezer in the break room. He cut the tape. He carried the limp shape of the detective to the back seat of his car. He drove.

By the time he stopped along the side of the wooded access road, Lowery was crying again. He blubbered wordlessly. Between the concussion and the choking and the shock, he wasn't really there anymore. Manson watched him in the rearview mirror.

"I let them all go here. When I come back, there's usually not much left. Bears, I figure… or dogs… I…" He cleared his throat. "I didn't mean for this to happen, John. But I'm glad it did."

The door alarm dinged loudly. He tore the box open. The bags of blood he'd collected over time were nearly thawed. He squeezed them, then cut them with a pocket knife. Carefully, he distributed the blood over the front seat, down into the grass, into the ravine.

Lowery stirred when he opened the rear door. Gently, he unholstered the Glock, rubbed his own prints away, and closed the detective's hand around the grip. Together, they put two bullets through the driver's seat.

He'd been shot before he could dump Lowery's body, the last brave act of a good cop. He'd lost so much blood. Too much blood to have survived. The body would probably never be recovered. Bears, they would figure… or dogs… DNA confirmation would be enough to declare the sick bastard dead.

Manson stuffed the empty blood bags into the emergency duffel from his trunk. He slung it over his shoulder and started walking. Gravel crunched underfoot. The door alarm faded and the shadows closed in. His fingers found the teeth in his pocket, smooth and full of an energy he didn't know he'd been missing.

Special.

  
  
  



End file.
